#╰ ––––––– ✧ ZEB ORRELIOS : to lose my honor is to lose myself ❨ main verse ❩˙

[everythingheard]

with Kallus ( @trueheartofarebel ) ▌from here.

Zeb couldn't deny the sudden lurch of panic in his chest when he had turned to glimpse Kallus' halting approach towards the rendezvous point, marked by the distinct, dark stain of crimson spreading across shirt fabric. Although it had swiftly become clear that there wasn't a risk of losing consciousness or succumbing to immediate blood-loss, that hadn't deterred him from gathering the man in his arms to return to the Ghost. Wounded was wounded, as far as he was concerned; besides, he knew Kallus well enough to infer what that telltale limp meant. Now, safely aboard, the initial protests concerning such a reception continued.

' I'm fine. '

For the first time since scooping up Kallus outside, Zeb tilted his head for a glance at his friend's face. Pale skin was now scoured red, highlighting those little spots of pigment sprinkled across it ( Lasat didn't have freckles, and he found them quite curious ). Was Kallus sore at him? Embarrassed? Zeb's ears, already angled to the side, flicked further back in irritation at the thought of either.

' It's shallow, nothing vital. '

As if that was all that mattered! Did the belief actually exist that he was about to watch Kallus hobble around, bleeding from an open laceration ( forget how deep or not deep it might be )? It bordered on striking him as an affront. No, scratch that. It was an affront. Zeb was affronted. "'Cause that's why I'm holding you to begin with, on account of all the fine you are," he snapped. "The others can worry about everything else, but I don't want you to move one step until we take care of you." Perhaps not even then, but he wasn't of the mind to introduce another debate for Kallus to attempt to fling that I'm fine card at just yet.

Zeb's gaze lifted upwards as he released a heavy huff that trailed into more of a sigh by the end. When his eyes returned to Kallus once more, the edge had waned from his voice and been replaced with something softer as he muttered a question that wasn't really a question. "Ah, why've you got to be so stubborn?"

[everythingheard]

with Thera ( @therapardalis )

As the illuminance from his flashlight swerved between the walls of the class four freighter on either side of them and the unremitting dark a few feet ahead, the set of Zeb's jaw tensed. Despite his ability to see quite clearly at night, the endless black currently enshrouding the way forward was onerous even for his gaze to pierce through; how much more-so it must be for Thera.

The thought prompted his eyes to flicker briefly to the woman beside him. Initially, it was the Devaronian crime lord Cikatro Vizago who had introduced her to the Ghost crew upon hiring them for a smuggling job. In the end, they had garnered Imperial intelligence in exchange while Thera had walked away many credits richer, and they had remained in-touch ever since. She was a skilled pilot and strategist with no particular love for the Empire, a good sort of contact to have. Thus, when she had reached out to them after acquiring intel about an abandoned class four container transport, there had been no reason to say no. The rebels would take the proton bombs that were supposed to be aboard, and Thera would get whatever remained.

Well, there was the whole matter of why the ship was abandoned to begin with. And the fact that no one knew the answer. Zeb presumed she was as displeased with their lack of insight as he was, yet it was also the primary reason why they were both here to begin with: the potential reward was great, but going in alone would be utterly foolhardy. Together, they were to locate the freighter's haul and open the cargo door, where the Ghost would be waiting for them to load whatever they found. It all sounded so easy — which was precisely why he was wary of it. While it meant little to the Empire to abandon a ship like this one when to the Rebellion it would mean so much, not even the Imperials would do so without a reason.

For the moment, however, it was better to focus on what was right in front of them. "Chopper." He glanced back over his shoulder at the droid waiting behind them. "Go to the bridge and see if you can restore the power." The tone of the astromech's responding beeps before heading off made Zeb roll his eyes. "That bucket of bolts gets on my last nerve, but if the power core's even remotely salvageable, Chop will get it done. C'mon."

Starting down the cavernous corridor, he brightened each dark corner as it came with his flashlight. As the beam flashed from one side to the other, it caught on something shiny hanging from his companion's belt. It hadn't been so easily discernable before, slightly obscured from view, yet Zeb noticed it now: a lightsaber. His gaze widening, he tipped his head towards the hilt. "Now, where'd you get that?"

[everythingheard]

"Good man." Kallus' reply was met with a grin, a corner of Zeb's lips inching higher to reveal a brief flash of teeth before his guise reflected his concentration once more. Even when he thought he felt the lingering gaze of golden-brown eyes on him, he didn't raise his own to validate it; he maintained the light sweeps of the disinfectant pad against Kallus' skin, instead watching as the drying blood disappeared. Really, he wasn't taken aback by just how still his friend managed to remain, despite the evident discomfort. In many ways, Kallus was the most disciplined person Zeb knew. Probably too disciplined sometimes, in his opinion.

Or perhaps he was just more lax than he ought to be, as he found his eyes flicking briefly upwards for a peek at Kallus' face in spite of himself. And Zeb shouldn't have. The expression settled upon Kallus' countenance was unlike any he had witnessed there prior, and it nearly made his breath catch in his throat in surprise. Parted lips, a soft flush of color, heavy-lidded gaze: was all of it because of this? As he glanced again to his task, he had to force his hand to move while the sight of Kallus like that only grew more pronounced in his mind. Zeb wasn't oblivious to the fact that the man was attractive ( and he harbored no self-consciousness in acknowledging it — when you grasped just how swiftly you could lose something or someone, any embarrassment over being caught looking was virtually null ), but this was something else. More.

And yet, even as he realized that his pulse had spiked, it failed to strike him as bemusing. Should it? But it didn't. If he truly thought about it, he had considered Kallus ' his ' in some regard ever since the Battle of Atollon. It wasn't in an overtly possessive kind of way ( at least, he didn't perceive it as such ); after all, Zeb was pleased that the Ghost crew was slowly warming up to the former Imperial, and even sought Kallus out at times independently of him. He hoped more of his comrades back at the base would come to do the same. No, it was more like — his to protect, to understand, to care for, to make smile.

Although Zeb wanted those things for all of his friends, this was different and it had been ever since Kallus stepped out of the Chimaera's escape pod and boarded the Ghost. He had never ruminated on what exactly it meant, other than the crazy reality that the human he had once despised had now become the friend he held closest to his heart. What would Kallus think about that, upon ever learning such a thing? What did he think about it?

Karabast. Now wasn't the time to contemplate it.

Disposing of the disinfectant wipe, Zeb traded it for a small container of bacta salve. "You know, patching up someone's wounds, it's different for Lasat than it is for most." Carefully, he began applying a thin layer of the ointment. "In the Honor Guard, if you offered it to another warrior in a certain way and they accepted, it was a pledge — like a vow to always take care of each other." Usually done after a sparring session that had led to more understated bruises or scrapes, or after incurring a nonthreatening injury, it had been common between two Guards who were family, best friends, or romantic partners; he had even witnessed it as a presentation of romantic intentions too, which was rather risky considering how harsh it was for the offer to be declined under any circumstances but made for quite the story if it was well-received. "But Honor Guard or not, looking after someone else's injuries is considered a privilege, whether you're the one taking the help or giving it."

Zeb rarely spoke like this. For so long, the moments when he almost did were crushed under the weight of loss and guilt that it had become habit: he had no right to talk about the people he had failed, and even if he did, no one would appreciate the weight of it. But then there was Kallus, who had listened intently to him explain a tenant of the Boosahn Keeraw and its significance to the bo-rifle. Although the words currently leaving Zeb's lips felt akin to opening a rusted door, and he only hoped they didn't sound that way, it was — good. No one could fully understand, yet perhaps he wanted Kallus to understand him ( his to have understand ). Now, he chanced another glimpse upwards despite the risk of further distraction, that corner of his mouth lifting a little higher again. "Guess that's not the popular interpretation across the Galaxy, is it?"

Despite his effort not to think any one way or another about Zeb seeing him half-bared, how his dearest friend's stare lingered and wandered lent it the weight of a caress. And wasn't that a lovely idea - especially since it quieted old memories of mockery over the very freckles Zeb's gaze followed down his front. How might it feel to have them appreciated?

But, there remained the damned cut to tend to. A part of Alexsandr almost regretted drawing the other's attention back to it; more of him, however, knew he shouldn't leave it alone. At least it'd mean staying close to Zeb for a while longer. He only allowed himself a small smile and another humored huff through his nose, not wanting to wince again.

Even before Zeb mentioned it, Alexsandr sat so still that breaths and blinking were his only movements. All his focused honed in on his friend, that slight lean in closer while one gentle, gloved hand cleaned away both dried and fresh blood. Muscles in his stomach jumped a bit on reflex - their curves softer than they'd been in the Empire, though no less strong - but he didn't squirm or twist. Still, Zeb's tease sparked the whim. Don't tempt me to make you. Stars, he could never have the audacity to voice that thought. Exposing that much of his devotion, his adoration, his want, when it wasn't asked for and Zeb was in the midst of something important... few things daunted Alexsandr, but that was certainly one.

"You won't have to," he murmured instead. It was his turn to let his stare wander over Zeb in appreciation. How concentration burned in those vibrant green eyes, returned that earlier weight of a touch to his attention. How his actual touch, even separated by gloves and a disinfectant pad, made Alexsandr crave more with a hunger so keen he expected his stomach to growl. The set and occasional flicks of those expressive ears; the shape of what stripes he could see in that surprisingly soft fur; the subtle shifts of broad and healthy muscle with each motion; the light skims of claws, blunted by the gloves.

Alexsandr's own eyes fell half-lidded as he eased into the comfort and even tenderness of the moment, lips slightly parted and a faint blush still sitting high on his cheeks. He might not feel worthy of this much care, but if Zeb saw fit to give it, then he couldn't bear pulling away.

[everythingheard]

As Zeb flipped open the medpac's lid and withdrew a pair of gloves from inside, he simultaneously glanced over at Kallus. Disquietude lingered inside him like a stubborn itch despite his friend's assurances, unwilling to abate until he took account of the laceration for himself. Rising to join it was the prior notion that Kallus perhaps found such apprehension trifling; it prickled uncomfortably beneath his skin for the second time that day, though he did his utmost to ignore it. Instead, Zeb's attention recentered on his ' patient's ' shifting movements, and the bare torso that allowed him a clearer view of precisely what they were working with.

He couldn't help but note Kallus' stature, well-suited to what many would classify as the vision of a soldier ( or, nowadays, a rebel ). Hardly a surprise there. The constellations of freckles across Kallus' upper body, however, were. There were more of them than he would have conjectured, scattered along the other man's skin in a manner that rather reminded him of stars clustered in the night sky, coaxing curious eyes to trace them endlessly. And without a second of forethought, Zeb's did. They followed the spots of pigment as they traveled down to Kallus' slender waist, hips dipping beneath trouser fabric —

That was when his gaze fell to the gash, the catalyst for all of this, and any other thoughts crashed to a halt.

Following a heavy exhale through his nose, he lowered himself onto one knee in front of Kallus. Blood, both dried and fresh around the injury, only served to make it look worse up close. With his right hand adopting a loose fist, Zeb grazed the back of his fingers ( barely skimming Kallus' skin ) just beneath the lowest flakes of crimson. There was nothing to indicate that the offending blade had carried any sort of toxin, nor was the abrasion as deep as it could have been. Small comfort when it would be better off not existing at all, yet it was the best that he could have hoped for given the circumstances. "Yeah." His attention shifted up to Kallus' countenance, a corner of his mouth drifting a little higher. "I guess you'll live."

Fresh relief wound its way through his veins as Zeb pulled on the gloves from the medpac. He hadn't been with the Ghost crew long before they had learned to replace the standard sizes with ones a bit larger after his hands had ripped a pair ( or three ); maybe they were disposable, but the disposing was supposed to occur after they had fulfilled their intended purpose and not when he was still struggling to even put them on. Selecting a disinfectant pad, his regard returned fully to the puncture in Kallus' skin. Then, concentration settled across Zeb's visage as he leaned forward to clean away the lingering blood, his other palm resting on the edge of the seat. "Now, don't make me to tell you to sit still." Despite the humorous intent of his words, they were nearly uttered under his breath as his focus remained absolute.

Alexsandr's gaze flicked up to Zeb's face once more at the latter's chuckle, brow slightly furrowing for a moment when his friend admitted no one had taken such initiative in a long while. While he wouldn't accuse any of the Ghost's crew of neglecting Zeb, he did mull over what assumptions might've been made in the past based on the other's formidable strength. "Then that may change," Alexsandr promised, just as quietly as before.

He wondered if he was imagining that brief tightness in Zeb's hold.

When they reached the holotable's seat, it was a conscious mental struggle not to reach out and cling, to chase after his dearest friend's warmth for a little longer. There was a wound to tend to, and besides, he didn't want to seem pathetic. While Zeb rummaged for a medpac, Alexsandr lifted his arm away from the cut so he could carefully unfasten and shed the stolen uniform's jacket. The close-fitting shirt beneath it took more time. He winced at the sting of peeling the fabric away from the wound, a few beads of fresh blood welling up, but managed to remove the shirt in the end. At the other's beckoning, Alexsandr propped a hand behind himself and leaned back a bit on the curved, cushioned bench to offer a better look.

He tried not to wonder what, if anything, Zeb might think when seeing his bare torso.

The cut itself was about as long as Alexsandr's handspan, shallower than was likely intended thanks to his reflexes and layers of clothing. It didn't look infected, and there was no sign of poison. After glancing down at it, he looked up at Zeb again. "I've had worse. Should be easy."

[everythingheard]

Although Zeb's grin eased slightly as he continued up and further into the Ghost, it remained evident upon his mouth ( the corners still lilted a little higher ). Certainly, the initial stammering attempt at an answer to his teasing only served to encourage it. He quite enjoyed witnessing such reactions, facets of Kallus that weren't so readily accessible to just anyone. At the quiet response that was finally managed, Zeb was tempted to reply, ' Nah, you sure didn't. ' However, when his gaze shifted downwards once more, he was distracted by the rush of color blooming across Kallus' face. Vivid in its presentation, the blush was no longer confined to freckled cheeks; instead, it reached all the way to the man's ears until they appeared as if they would even be hot to the touch. It was — cute. Real cute.

He was almost glad when Kallus spoke again, reorienting his attention to the task of watching where he was going. ' But you're worth fussing over too, you know. ' The statement took Zeb aback, prompting a surprised chuckle to leave his throat. "Been a long time since anyone's done that." Ah, he didn't doubt that his crewmates cared about him much as he did for them and, although he never had, he knew that they would patch him up if he requested it; after all, they had taken risks to save him more than once, which were clearly the weightier endeavors. Fussing, he supposed, was something else. Zeb's friends harbored a propensity to think of him as the muscle, the one able to take the hits they couldn't and walk away all right. He didn't mind. Anyhow, it was ( mostly ) true.

And yet, to linger on Kallus' words set alight a startling warmth in his chest that he wanted to hold onto, to capture in his grasp like he had held a firefly one night on Lothal — watching the bright little beam through his fingers as it rested on his palm. Almost without thinking, Zeb allowed his grip on his companion to tighten in something of a squeeze for a beat.

When they reached the lounge, he was careful as he settled Kallus onto the edge of the seat that curved around the holotable. "Be right back." With a brief pat to Kallus' shoulder, he headed for one of the stowage closets in search of a medpac. If the injury required more care than could feasibly be provided on the Ghost, at least Zeb could treat it as best as possible in the meantime until they arrived back at base. Once he returned, he set the kit atop the table and gestured to Kallus. "Lemme see it. You need to show me what we're dealing with here."

He saw enough of Zeb's ears pinning back, and the green eyes he'd tried to catch looking away at first, that Alexsandr wondered if his effort to ease the mood had failed. It wouldn't surprise him, really; he'd never been the best conversationalist, or well-practiced with speaking his mind. He did hope he hadn't hurt his dearest friend's feelings. There was a soft and kind heart beneath all of Garazeb's toughness, one that Alexsandr both envied and privately yearned to hold a place in.

But then he was answered with a light humored retort, enough to keep his small smile from fading entirely. 'You're worth fussing over'. One more sentiment he would treasure, and try to believe.

What did cause his smile to vanish was Zeb's tease, though only because Alexsandr answered at first with a flustered splutter. Another blush, brighter than before, flared up across his cheeks and onto his ears. His gaze flicked down and aside, as he acquiesced in a murmur, "...I suppose I didn't." Alexsandr hoped the continued absence of such a demand would make clear his opinion about Zeb carrying him. That, and the way his head still rested on the other's shoulder. "But you're worth fussing over too, you know."

He kept a forearm pressed over his bleeding cut in the meantime. At least the sooner he was treated, the sooner he could remove some parts of the stolen Imperial uniform he'd had to wear for disguise. The stiff fabric chafed a little around the wound, though Alexsandr kept such a minor complaint to himself.

[everythingheard]

In those scattered moments when Zeb couldn't shove away his concern for his friends, he was accustomed to facing push-back for it. None of the Ghost crew was particularly good at receiving concern from others ( reasons ranging somewhere between ' not used to it ' to ' of the belief that they didn't deserve it ' ), but as long as it ended with them safely aboard the ship with any necessary help, he no longer cared about any aggravation aimed in his direction, nor whatever arguments may crop up as a result. Although it was a stark contrast to what he had always known on Lasan, so were many things. Thus, if Ezra was irked with Zeb because he threw the kid over his shoulder after a quick escape was hindered by an untimely ankle sprain, he was far from bothered. As it was, at least one of their rebel band was always annoyed with another at any given time; that was just how families they were.

But right now was different, and the additional impression that perhaps his desire to care for Kallus' wound was found to be, despite its reiteration, trivial ( bothersome, to be brushed aside, on some level amusing ) reigned in his mind — and it stung. He hated feeling like this. Hated it! Zeb couldn't even turn it into irritation towards Kallus, though it would be easier if he did; however, the man didn't harbor any responsibility to mollify him. His ears pulling yet a little further back, he glanced to the side. It shouldn't matter. Whatever. Kallus had submitted to his petition, and that was more important. Zeb grasped part of why his friend's dissatisfaction was so stringent, so it counted for something that between their two distinct brands of obstinance, it was he who had gotten his way.

When his eyes returned to Kallus' visage, it was evident from the expression that awaited there the current hope was that humor would mitigate the tension he had created with his insistence. He should let it. Kallus didn't understand what this meant to Zeb, and holding on to his stupid hurt feelings wouldn't change that. So, he allowed levity to lace through his voice as he countered, "Hey, I don't fuss, got it?" His tone quieted for a moment. "But you're worth fussing over." Then, a wide grin crept along Zeb's lips as his gaze lingered on Kallus' countenance. "Y'know, you never mentioned anything about putting you down." Shifting his arm just slightly beneath Kallus' legs, he started further into the ship. "C'mon."

As soon as his laughter had stumbled, Alexsandr dreaded how obviously the cut pained him. Any hope that Zeb might overlook it for any reason was fragile, even before crumbling beneath the weight of his dear friend's exasperation. He still hadn't worked out the best way to argue back against sincere kindness and concern, regardless of how it was phrased.

'Not that you're making it what I care about.' The remark pinched a little in Alexsandr's chest. He didn't mean to be selfish; it was his worry for everyone else's safety - very much including Zeb's - which pushed him like this. Or, was that the only reason? He didn't know what else to do. How to explain this need to prove himself, prowling eternally restless through heart and mind? He couldn't call it ambition, not really - though it was the same yearning for approval, for acceptance, from his Imperial days, it had been stripped raw and tender and ached all the more for that. He didn't even wish for absolution; he could never deserve it. He'd reject any offer of it. But he wanted to deserve the recognition of understanding. He wanted others, wanted Garazeb Orrelios, to look at him and see something worthwhile. Not perfect, never, but... not merely 'useful' either. Even if Alexsandr couldn't see the same, in the mirror. And even if he hadn't the faintest idea how to handle it when it did happen, in small moments.

Alexsandr turned his head further in against Zeb's shoulder, managing a smaller sigh without a wince cutting him off this time. "Alright. But the beacon scan must be finished before we're out of hyperspace." He doubted he could stand the worry and fear if it wasn't. "...In the meantime, you can fuss over me as much or as little as you like." A touch of dry, fond humor with a slight smirk as his eyes met Zeb's once more, trying to ease the mood.

[everythingheard]

A laugh. It was a sound that wasn't elicited from Kallus anywhere near often enough, in Zeb's opinion. Hearing it would have left him convinced that he was being derided at one point in his life ( and it very likely would have been true ), and yet — everything was different now. The trial of survival they had fought together on Bahryn had irrevocably changed them both; the alteration in Kallus was the most evident while his own was more subtle, creeping up on him after the revelation that the now ex-Imperial was a Fulcrum agent. Yeah, Zeb wasn't the same. Hera had commented on it one night, while it was just the two of them in the cockpit: ' You seem like you have direction now. '

He supposed he did. That little bit of faith still inside him that he had long thought dead sparked to life again after finding Lira San, and learning of Kallus' chosen path bolstered it in a way he never could have foreseen. Life was weird like that, Zeb had learned.

Kallus' amusement forcibly turning into a cough partway through? That wasn't weird in the slightest.

He gave an exasperated shake of his head. "And you're doing just fine, huh?" All of this ' pushing through obvious injury even when it wasn't thoroughly necessary ' struck Zeb as a very Kallus sort of thing to do, though he didn't feel as if he could rescind his agreement not to stand in the way unless his friend took the discussion off the metaphorical table. Indignation rose in his chest again, yet was somewhat quieted by Kallus' prior admissions still in his mind. "You can't expect me to watch you in pain and be okay with it. Or not to be sore at you after if you do it anyway, 'cause I will be." In spite of his words, his voice lacked a majority of its earlier edge. "You already got us everything we need, who checks the scans won't change that. And don't make this about repaying, 'cause I don't care about any of that." Zeb's gaze flickered to the side then back, almost in-time with a marginal shifting of his weight. "Not that you're making it what I care about. But — I'm asking you, all right?"

He wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but it felt like some of the tension drained from Zeb's body. Tension Alexsandr hadn't fully realized was there until it was gone. Ah, he really had worried him. Maybe he could find some other way to make it up to Zeb later, a way that didn't involve neglecting proper scans.

Thoughts on such methods crashed to a halt at his dearest friend's reassurance. On the one hand, Alexsandr found that so difficult to believe; Thrawn was formidable, to be sure, turning his own efforts against him, but the fact remained he'd failed the Rebellion. Even before that, he'd hounded some of their best for so long, been party to atrocities done in the name of mere intimidation, all because he hadn't considered a few important questions. On the other hand... Zeb had been affected by so much of what he'd done, yet still somehow thought so highly of him. Alexsandr had no idea how that could happen, but it had. 'Trust me' -- stars, if his friend only knew how much he truly did, how willingly he'd place his life (and heart) in Zeb's hands.

At that remark about his blood, Alexsandr's light laugh was choked up short by a protesting sting from his wound, stumbling into a hissing wince and a long shaky exhale. Even so, he managed a small half-smile and met Zeb's eyes again. "I do know. ...And if it wasn't for my stars-damned knee," Alexsandr added wryly, with a nonplussed glance at the joint in question, "I would've returned unscathed." His heavier sigh was also clipped at the end by another, smaller wince. "Some days, I feel held together by only a few bolts and a dream."

[everythingheard]

Zeb was rarely opposed to reassessment. During his time as captain of the Honor Guard ( in those days when he believed he deserved such a title ), he had always endeavored to remain open to prudent inquiries and proposals about his ideas while maintaining a clear position of leadership; without it, he surely would have missed the benefit of perspectives other than his. It was what had earned him not only the respect of those in his command, but also their loyalty. Even now, when Zeb never wished to be placed in a role with such authority ever again, it remained a part of himself that he didn't want to lose. However, in this moment, he harbored no desire whatsoever to amend his insistences to Kallus. Not a single, solitary one.

At the thought, the recollection of bruises in angry hues of black, purple, yellow, and green littering Kallus' body after that final escape from the grasp of the Empire lunged to the forefront of his mind. Humans bruised so easily, so visibly; Zeb's were almost always concealed by his fur, even the worst of them escaping the notice of the rest of the crew a majority of the time. Perhaps it was simply how pale Kallus was combined with the sheer amount of bruising, or the notion of the man enduring it without any hope that help might come, that had propelled it to the cusp of his memory now. This wasn't then, he knew that full well, yet even when the corners of his friend's mouth turned downwards as golden-brown eyes met his green ones, his stubborn stance stayed unyielding —

Until Zeb felt Kallus' head lean into his shoulder, and the gentle weight of it melted his obstinance while the tension eased from his posture. Karabast. "Okay, okay. You win." Still, for a beat, he couldn't quite shift his gaze from Kallus' countenance. "But you'll always be the opposite of a weakness. Trust me on that." Perhaps someday, Kallus would believe him. What had been stated last ( ' knowing you're safe... ' ) earned a simple tip of Zeb's head. "I get that you're trying to keep us all safe — you know it's just that I want your blood in your body where it belongs, don't ya?"

Alexsandr was still learning the finer intricacies of Lasat expression - or perhaps more accurately, the ways Zeb in particular expressed emotions - but he thought he saw irritation in the angle of his friend's ears. Over his injury, or his protestation? It only seemed to grow worse after what he'd tried to frame as a reassurance, but short of obedience Alexsandr had no idea how else to ease it. And couldn't obedience wait until he was certain he wouldn't accidentally lead Thrawn to their base a second time?

His frown deepened a little at the insistence that the others could handle combing through the encrypted data. Alexsandr didn't doubt any of the crew's skills, but the urge to do it himself, just to make absolutely sure, left him restless. He hadn't seen any alarm pings while making a copy, but the Admiral's fastidiousness might have hidden them. Catching something during the decryption after coming home would be too late.

Alexsandr didn't enjoy worrying Zeb, though. Even when it felt like too much fuss that he didn't know how to handle, even when couched in gruffness, he understood it came from a kind place. His own head lowered to rest against the front of his friend's shoulder, gaze downcast for a moment. "I... I don't want to be a weakness," Alexsandr admitted softly. "I don't want to fail you all again. I've been given grace that I struggle to deserve, and I will do anything to repay it. Knowing you're safe..." Light brown eyes flicked back up to Zeb's face. "That's worth losing a little blood."